


Shadow-self

by avani



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they don't know: she was never <i>Gwen</i>, or <i>Jenny</i>, or even plain <i>Guinevere</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow-self

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goblinish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblinish/gifts).



i. 

What they don't know: she was never _Gwen_ , or _Jenny_ , or even plain _Guinevere_. The name always rested uncomfortably on her shoulders anyway. They called her the most beautiful woman in the world, and truthfully she only was on her wedding day. The less said about _Your Highness_ and _High Queen_ , the better. 

The only nickname that ever felt right was _Vanora_ , in a thick northern burr, or _Aunt Vanora_ in a chorus of five boisterous voices. She supposed it must have been meant as an insult at first -- Arthur might have our loyalty, but the Orkays, and our mother, own our hearts -- but it had shifted, subtly, into: 

_(Aunt Vanora, how am I to survive this green madman's challenge?)_

_(Survive it you must, Gawain, for it would break your uncle's heart to see you dead._

_(Aunt Vanora, can you imagine who that fool you call husband means me to wed?)_

_(Well, Gaheris, I'm sure it's no more than a rogue like you deserves.)_

_(Aunt Vanora, why won't Sir Lancelot_ notice _me?)_

_(I'm sure I don't know, Gareth.)_

_(Aunt Vanora, won't you let me ride at the head of your party this May Day next?)_

_(Of course I shall, Agrivain.)_

_(Aunt Vanora, why does my uncle hate me so?)_

_(Oh Mordred, my darling: I don't know.)_

She would deny it to her dying day, if asked, but her husband's nephews were always her best beloved of his knights. Their affection was so simply earned, and so difficult to displace. All they asked in return is that she not betray their faith in her. It was no surprise, therefore, that she did exactly that in the end. 

But that came later. 

ii. 

Her world ends the day after the boat from Astolat floats down to Camelot. 

She should have guessed something was amiss earlier: Lancelot had staggered around for days, white-faced and wondering, but the courts of justice had to be administered and Cei had gotten into a snit over the amount of cider that would need to be ordered for the forthcoming feast, and so she had paid the signs no heed. 

So she was unprepared for the all-too-familiar body clad in white that had been oh, so gently tucked into the boat. 

She did what she always had. She rallied. She gave orders to have the body transported to her own chambers--those assembled whispered of the Queen wishing to look upon her own rival--and turned away from the wretched boat with its beautiful bower of lilies about the corpse's veiled face. 

It wasn't until the moon rose that she dared return to her bedroom, to find the lily maid sitting on the bed, impatience apparent on a face as familiar as her own-- for the very simple reason that it is her own. 

"I had to come back," said her sister miserably. "I had no choice." 

iii. 

The oldest story in the world leads to their peculiar circumstances. 

A young handsome lord looks upon his lords and smiles on all he sees, including a particularly blooming servant girl. No thought is given to his expectant wife until daed is done and by then, the chit bears a swollen belly, too. He thinks to ignore it, but the resulting child's face betrays his folly, as much like her father's as her true-born not-quite-twin's. 

No, no -- it's an older story than that. 

A handsome young knight comes courting a beautiful princess on behalf of his liege lord, and she finds she prefers him to his more reserved king. It would all spiral inexorably towards tragedy, except: 

"Oh, don't plague me so, sister! We look exactly alike, you and I--who would know?" 

"I would." 

"--and you're better all those sums and economies and castle wall defenses than I ever have been or will be. You'll be twice the queen I could be, you know that as well as I--" 

"It's nothing you cannot learn with time." 

"--And you look with favor upon Arthur. Don't bother denying it. I've seen your face when he smiles at you, and your face when he looks away." 

"I--" 

To her shame that had decided it: that and her sister's incandescent joy as Guinevere stepped out of her wedding veil and handed it over. 

"This is a story," her sister had whispered as she crept into the night, "and that means it can have a happy ending after all." 

iv. 

The problem is that she had forgotten that even a happy ending is an ending nonetheless. 

There had been a child, her sister said (Guinevere. _Guinevere_. It is strange, and sad, that she had to remind herself of which name rightfully belongs to whom). The holy women at Astolat had overlooked much, but even they could not tolerate such a transgression. The boy was sent to Carbonek for fostering--her sister did not even know his name--and she barred from Astolat's doors. 

"Nowhere else in the country does a holy order protect its postulants' right to secrecy more firmly," explained her sister, "and of course I couldn't go anywhere else. They'd recognize me at once." 

_Then where do you think I shall be safe?_ she wanted to roar but did not. Her mother's blood rendered her servile, and besides, Guinevere has always been so. When robbed of her whims, she returned, however reluctantly, to the privileges that were hers by right. And what was more, Lancelot was here. Where Lancelot was, she would be, too. 

Instead the queen--the false queen, the imposter--rose up and wrapped herself in a cloak like midnight. She slipped out the gates before the sun could rise and anyone could be the wiser. 

She did wish she could have said her farewell to Lancelot, to ask him if his delight in her sister was worth this. 

She did wish she could have said her farewell to her Orkney boys, to smooth their brows, and buss their cheeks, and ask their forgiveness for what would. Guinevere would not be able to control them; they were too wild for her. They would suffer for it, and her sister, too. 

She did not wish to see her husband again. She did not quite dare. 

v. 

She never asked Arthur if he guessed the truth. At times she was sure he must have: the way he shielded her from Leondegrance's presence; the way he renounced his preferred simplicity to treat his queen with the pomp and splendor she was due; the way he would never hear a word against her. Other times she was sure he could not have: the way he praised her beauty and her poise, telling her she had been born to her position; the way he sends her conspiratorial smiles and conciliatory messages when statecraft kept him from her side for too long; the way he would never hear a word against her. 

He had been the one to tell her she was the most beautiful woman in the world on her wedding day. She wondered idly if he knew it was her sister he had seen up until then. 

He touched her as though she were the only thing in the world that mattered, as if he would pass up any number of challenges, give up any number of grails for one more moment by her side. She was quite certain he would never do so if he knew the truth. 

He called her _Vanora_ when they were alone in her bed. 

vi. 

Mordred finds her in the end. By then she is merely the strange, mad woman who lives beside a lake, and she fancies Mordred must have had the devil of a time tracking her down. He tumbles from his charge, his legs as long and ungainly as ever, and he takes her hands. 

What he tells her makes her blood run cold. 

Her Gaheris, so sharp-tongued; her Gaheris, so sweet-faced. Both cut down in their prime by a Lancelot blinded by his panic. He had known--must have known-- Arthur would never let an innocent woman die, that it was no coincidence that two unguarded men stood by the queen's scaffold. Was it the shock of everything that had happened that had rendered him so thoughtless? 

Gawain and Agravain, too, run mad with grief. And she, too, had had her own role to play in this disaster; their aunt, gentle and loving one day, and hot-tempered and heedless the next; they had lost her, before anyone else, and that had been the first cut to their hearts, and perhaps the worst. Now they stood, ready to charge against their old allies, and Mordred on a desperate course of his own. 

"I needed your blessing," he pants. "I needed to know you were all right." 

She draws him close. Around her she sees the bitter truth of it; Camelot is nothing but rubble caught up in one man's dreams, and she can do nothing but stand back and watch it burn. 

He whispers: "My uncle--my father dreams of you." 

(She thinks of Lancelot and Guinevere, too, and their son, who lived and died thinking his mother was named Elaine. She thinks of Gawain and Agrivain, who will be defeated by their guilt and self-loathing even if they are victorious against Lancelot. She thinks of Arthur. 

She thinks of Arthur.) 

She makes up her mind. 

"This is a story," she says, "and that means it can have a happy ending after all."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by goblinish's request for a fix-it, combined by my own rereading of the Vulgate Merlin's frankly bizarre episode of the False Guinevere. I hope you enjoy this, and that you have a lovely Yuletide!


End file.
